


Brave New World

by ivanolix



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon - Book, Canon - TV, Chance Meetings, Dark Character, Female Characters, Future Fic, Gen, Gen Fic, Hopeful Ending, POV Female Character, Reunions, Sisters, Vigilantism, Wordcount: 100-1.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-10
Updated: 2011-11-10
Packaged: 2017-10-26 00:27:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/276553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivanolix/pseuds/ivanolix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brave New World

The alley reeked of urine and smoke, the aroma so heavy that it seemed to cling to the very shadows. Rats prowled here and Arya hunted with them, tongue wet with readiness for bloody justice.

It wasn't murder if they deserved to die. Silence ruled here, peace of a sort, as homage to her needlework. Shadows bent away at her approach, figures skittering away into the darkness. Except one.

All she could see was a shroud, a tall figure hypothetically beneath. Arya ordered her breathing to stay quiet as she drew Needle, a skill so well-learned that it was easier than falling asleep. Metal clinked, and the shrouded figure stood bolt upright, alert. Prey—or a foe.

"This is a dangerous part of town," Arya said. Even in the dark alley, her sword glinted like silver, with a point that could prick you all the way through before you felt it. "You'd better get out quick."

"Maybe I know how to handle myself." The woman's voice, cold like iron, made Arya's hackles rise. When the stranger drew two daggers from beneath her shroud, Arya's grip on Needle tightened.

It wasn't the first time someone tried to break her peace. With winter had come the dregs of society and they slunk through the streets in spite of her reputation. Once a Stark of Winterfell, now she was merely a hunter in the dark. Doing her part to fight against the sickening darkness, one bloody corpse at a time. "I don't let anyone like you stay around," Arya warned, jaw clenching. "This is my town..." It wasn't the ideal residence, but it was _hers_.

"Get in my way and I'll cut you," the strange woman promised, taking a step forward without fear. Her face stayed hidden, but her words held fierce authority. "I'm not a stranger to killing people who take too close an interest in me." No fear or false promises, Arya noted, just ruthless purpose. Whether that purpose came with skill or not...was another question.

Arya laughed humorlessly, and gave Needle a flourish. "I don't care who you are. I'm Arya Direwolf, that's the only name I care about."

"Arya?" The woman with the daggers suddenly sounded like a girl. She stopped short, daggers frozen in mid-air. It was more than the voice of recognition.

Blinking, suppressing a shiver, Arya frowned. "What?"

For a few heartbeats neither woman moved. A flicker of light gleamed in the other woman's eyes as Arya stared at her, daring her to explain the odd question. Then the shroud fell backwards, and even the darkness couldn't hide the fall of auburn hair. "I'm Sansa."

Arya stared into eyes that—somehow—she knew would be blue as the summer sky. The name sounded unfamiliar on her tongue. but then, so many years had passed since that name had been the only one her sister knew. Her own voice sounded like a distant echo as she said, wavering, hunter no more, "Sansa?"

Before she knew it, the other woman—her _sister_ —dropped the daggers and rushed into her arms. It was an attack, an invasion, and had it been anyone but Sansa she'd be lying dead with a blade lodged in her belly. But long-forgotten love, grudging as it was, held Arya back. "Sansa?" she whispered again.

"I can't believe it's really you," Sansa whispered against her shoulder, and the ache in that voice ripped through every facade. She gripped onto Arya with force that the other girl wouldn't have expected.

Ever since Sansa had disappeared, Arya presumed her dead. Her mind's portrait of a slim waif of a girl could never survive on her own, least of all with the hatred of the Lannisters hot on her heels. But this Sansa, the one now embracing her, was tall and hard and strong, though somehow still possessing a quality that made Arya wonder if she would fade away if she didn't concentrate hard.

"I thought you were dead," she admitted, at last dropping Needle and returning the embrace. Her eyes stung harshly. "Or a traitor."

"Never," Sansa swore.

The years felt like ages, heavy on Arya's shoulders. Muscles, scars, the shape of her body—nothing was like the child she'd once been, scampering about Winterfell like a jackrabbit. And where was slender whispy Sansa? Where were their brothers, fierce and rugged and strong?

"Oh Arya, we're the only ones left..."

For the first time in years, Arya choked on a breath as her throat locked up. "I know," she said, barely audible. "I _know_."

There were no tears in the end. This was no tragedy. Two lost girls in the dark—two killers out of desperation, even if their weapons lay on the ground—but they were direwolves at heart. And at long last, the pack was reuniting.


End file.
